


Sanguiphore

by cat_77



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they had to stick to the darkness, they would have died off centuries ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanguiphore

**Author's Note:**

> For the "bites" square at hc_bingo.
> 
> * * *

This was decidedly not good. In all his years, and there had been many, he did not recall anything quite this bad. The helicarrier incident was, of course, excluded from that list for two reasons: one, there was an act of an actual god involved, and two, he was unconscious for far too long and could only remember the stories told and very little of what would constitute as a firsthand account after a certain point in the event.

Still, his current situation was firmly in the realm of the not good and there was not much he could do about it. His team, his charges, were busy taking down the enemy which, in this case, constituted quite the undertaking. He needed them to focus on that, and not on him at this time.

He busied himself with that task, and with listening to the rattle of his lungs even as he listened to remains of the battle unfold. Captain America was calling for Hawkeye, who had left his post but only to provide cover for Black Widow and Thor. Iron Man was flying high, and Hulk was doing what he did best, which was to smash. 

It was the Iron Man suit that may cause a problem, actually. To be more precise, the man within it would. Sure enough, the last shots barely fired, he heard the distinctive voice of Tony Stark, with an 80's headbanging anthem in the background, call out, "Shit, Agent is down!"

"Status," Romanov demanded, for it was no less than that. She was almost breathless, the fall of her footsteps an tattoo in the background.

He knew what she meant even as he knew very few would understand his response of, "Sixty-five percent."

Unsurprisingly, his revelation was met with vicious profanity in varying languages from two of his charges and a confused, "What the hell does that mean?" from another. It was Rogers though, always the picture of decorum in the field if not elsewhere, who politely requested, "Please clarify as I don't understand."

And it was so very difficult to deny him of all people, even though Phil knew the necessity, even though he knew the risks of an open line and straggling civilians.

"Classified," Barton answered for him, covering as always. His voice had echoed, heard both via the comm and via being far closer than he had any right to be. Phill didn't chastise him though, not when he felt a reassuringly warm hand against his freezing skin and said, "On scene now. Situation contained."

And Stark, always Stark, shouted back, "How can you say it's contained? Half his blood and a quarter of his intestines are spread across the street - you're kneeling in it for fuck's sake!" And there, the ground reverberated around him as the suit came in for a landing.

Clint ignored him, possibly through long practice at this point. Instead, he pressed that temptingly warm had across his brow and spoke solely to Phil as he said, "The van's about fifty feet away - it'll have to do for privacy unless you want to broadcast this shit and have to explain it to more than just the team."

Yes, the van. The van where he had been observing from. The van that protected him with solid metal and wires. The van from which he had seen the enemy approach and take aim at his charges. The van from which he had taken off, gun in hand, and taken that enemy down, only to discover he had not been alone, that another had been hidden to their sensors, and that that other had been just as armed as the first. It was the slice across his abdomen that had caused the most damage, the one to his leg near superficial. He had managed the shot and neutralized the situation, but at the cost of blood, his own blood, all but sixty-five percent of his own to be exact. Perhaps closer to an even sixty now.

"The van will do, but someone will need to stand guard," he advised with a calmness he did not feel.

"Not a problem, sir," a new voice replied. Natasha, armed and ready.

She reached for one arm and Clint for the other and movement hurt worse than the original injury. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it, even as he tried to ignore Stark's continued caterwauling and demands for explanations.

They had made it approximately twenty of the fifty feet when the caterwauling changed to another, "For fuck's sake," and harsh metal arms cut into his skin, bruising and more than likely accidentally pushing more precious blood towards the wounds that would serve as exits. It did, however, have the advantage of getting him to the van far sooner than Barton or Romanov could have managed, so there was that.

The doors were opened and Sitwell stood there at the ready, sleeves rolled up and area cleared to lay him down in. "I don't know if we're going to be enough," Jasper said apologetically.

He almost didn't respond, but did not want his friend to take it as anger or frustration. Not when no one had to do a thing. Not when there were people freely giving what he was so hesitant to take. "I just need to get to HQ," he grunted. There would be more there. There would be enough.

"That's what I'm talking about," Jasper replied. He knelt next to him, pressed his bare wrist to Phil's lips. He felt his teeth descend, but was fading faster than anticipated, was not sure if he had the strength to make the initial bite.

Sitwell was pushed out of the way and Barton was there, stripping off his arm guard and tossing it to the side. A knife appeared, though whether it was Clint's or Natasha's he could not say, and Clint pressed it against his vein without pause, the red bubbling up readily. The wrist was pressed to his lips, the liquid dripped upon his tongue instead of sucked with any real force. It was enough though, just enough, for instinct to take over.

He drank weakly, but he drank. He could feel the warmth pour down his gullet, slide down his esophagus and dampen the pit of his very being. He felt the moment it started to take effect, the moment when his collapsing lungs re-inflated. His wounds still bled, losing more than he was gaining, unable to find the power to seal enough to slow if not completely stop.

Speaking of stopping, he knew he needed to. Clint would let him drain him dry if he thought it would help, if he thought it would save another. He saw how pale the man had become already, even as he saw how much he pressed against his arm in an attempt to release more, feed him faster.

He pushed weakly against the arm that was growing increasingly lax against his lips. Clint, of course, pushed back. That's why Jasper was there though, and the other agent pulled Barton back enough for Romanov to finish the job. Another wrist was offered, skin a shade darker and imprint of the watch Helen had given him still carved against the tender flesh. This time he bit, tried not to flinch away when Jasper did, not wanting to hurt, not wanting to harm, but needing to survive nonetheless.

Stark was bitching loudly by the time Natasha offered her paleness to him. The taste was familiar, the warmth increasing, but it still was not enough, would not be enough, might not even get him to one of the safe houses let alone HQ.

There were other voices as well, and he realized his remaining charges had arrived. Rogers was confused, Thor angered, and Banner barely strong enough to stand in his post-transformation haze. Those voices all ground to a halt when Romanov announced, "He needs more."

Barton appeared with his as of yet unbandaged wrist, but she shook her head. "Any more and you're a lost cause for days," she explained without heat.

Stark pressed forward, suit folded back, and offered, "What about me?"

It was Phil himself who shook his head this time. "We don't know the effects of the palladium poisoning on your blood," he said, the words slightly slurred from exhaustion and being formed around teeth he preferred to hide. Yes, they cured the worst of it and Stark was no longer at Death's door, but he had seen the files, knew the lasting damage. It was less about what the possible trace amounts would do to Phil and more about what such a drain on an already compromised system would do to the man offering.

"Doctor Banner is out due to the irradiation, as is Thor as there is no telling what his alien physiology may do," Jasper explained, forestalling the other offers before they could even be made.

"What about me?" a voice asked, quiet, unsure.

Phil felt his eyes widen. While he had gotten his hero worship embarrassment out of the way quite some time ago, there was no way he felt comfortable feeding off of a national icon. "N-no," he stuttered. And breathing hurt, hurt so damn much, but the fact he could feel himself doing it again was a good sign. "I-I can't, I couldn't..." he tried.

Sitwell voiced what he could not, and even made it sound plausible. "Your system has been augmented by the serum," he said, not unkindly. "The best chance, the statistically favorable thing to do right now is to get him back to HQ where we can-"

He never got the chance to finish his sentence, never got the chance to lie to a group of super heroes and tell them that Phil would even survive the transport. Rogers spoke over him in the quiet, cool way he had when he was sure in his resolve and certain no one would question his orders because he was not just a team leader, but Captain America, legend of old and quickly becoming a modern mythos all over again. "I gave blood during the war and not a single soldier felt an ill effect, in fact most healed that much faster. I don't know what's going on with Agent Coulson, but don't know what's going on a lot in this world. I do know that there's a chance to save him and that I may be it. Read the files, heck, have Tony have JARVIS verify them for you. My blood has saved more than a single soldier on the field before, there's no reason it can't do the same for a friend now." 

He took advantage of the way people had stepped back ever so slightly and shoved his wrist right under Phil's nose. He could smell him, smell the very blood that flowed through his veins, the life force that his body so desperately needed. He resisted the urge to lick his lips even as he resisted the urge to use what little energy he had left to surge forward and take what was so willingly offered.

Rogers must have felt there was something else at play, confusion writ across his iconic features as he tried to figure out why Coulson wouldn't do it, couldn't do it, when it was the most obvious of the solutions presented. He knelt, face morphing into that of sympathy and worry. "Are you too weak?" His hand brushed across Phil's forehead, flinching back from the lingering cold, but his wrist held steady, just there, just constant.

Phil was a proud man, and so he died a little inside when his jaw tilted upwards, his teeth just barely scraping against Steve's skin, before he had the wherewithal to pull back again.

"Widow?" Rogers asked. And, yes, she would betray him, she would always betray him when she thought it was in his best interests, so it came as a surprise to exactly no one when she held up a blade, small and so very, very sharp, and flipped the handle around to offer it properly, as though there were a protocol in such things.

And Rogers, Captain America, national hero and childhood idol, sliced quick and clean across his own wrist, the blood bubbling quickly to pool against the plane of his skin. Skin that was already trying to heal. Skin that was already sealing before his very eyes. Skin that gave way far to easily against the assault of Phil's fangs, his teeth sinking deep into the flesh.

Instinct had won out over reasoning, over want and sensibility. And the blood flowed, it glided, warm and liquid and oh so sweet over his tongue, his throat, and into his belly. He breathed harshly through his restored lungs, folded himself closer up towards the source as his abdomen began to repair itself. He felt stronger already, strong enough to seek out the sweetness, overpower the source to get more, to feed more, to drain the Giver dry in ways his kind had trained themselves out of generations ago.

It was only the slight gasp, the hint of a pained moan, that drew him out of the trance he had fallen into. His training to protect, to serve others, surged forward and brought him back to reality, brought him back to the view of the man on his knees before him, brought him back to just who that man was and what he meant and just how far he had nearly gone.

He pushed the wrist away, likely doing a hint more damage as the sharpness of his teeth scraped across the open wound in the process, but knowing it was needed, knowing it was necessary, knowing he had to stop now before he went too far. He curled up on himself after, as much in shame for what he had just done, what he had almost done, as to hide his face he sought out the final few drops stuck to his teeth, smeared across his lips. He listened as his tongue ran over and over, erasing the last vestiges of the taste even as his mind committed it to memory, heard the others take care of the savior he had nearly destroyed.

"Sorry. So sorry," he repeated, chanted, even as strong hands turned him, laid him out on his back and pressed things soft and agonizing against his remaining wounds.

"It's okay, sir, he's okay," someone, possibly Barton insisted. It was a lie though, it had to be. "No, it's not," the same voice promised, pausing as another softness, a bandage perhaps, was taped into place. "We've got him and we've got you - you're both going to be fine, I swear."

And he wanted to believe it, really he did, but it was impossible and he knew it. He had never taken that much from another before, knew exactly how much was allowed before the Giver would go into shock, would bleed out and die just from trying to feed one of his kind, just from trying to assuage the hunger for even a little while. It was too much. Too much and too fast. Even if the serum let Steve survive, he would be weak, injured, unwhole for days just because Phil couldn't control himself. Just because Phil gave in to instinct over reasoning and training. Just because what he was, what he was borne to be, overpowered what was right and good in the world, proving the myths and stories and fears true once again, after so many years of trying to tear them all down.

Mind reeling with failure and head buzzing with a life force he never should have had the the opportunity to be near let alone consume, he let the overwhelming exhaustion that a Healing left behind consume him, and sank into the darkness it offered.

* * *

Three days after the incident Coulson, was released from Medical. The serum-enhanced blood had done the majority of the work, but the SHIELD medics insisted upon increased feedings and observations until they were satisfied the damage was successfully reversed. No one said a word about what had happened. No one had said a word about his utter and complete failure.

Rogers - Steve, if he was on terms enough to feed from the man - had visited him each day, worn and wane and so clearly weakened that first day, even if he denied it to his core. He put on a sunny smile that did nothing to hide the shadows under his eyes or the underlying paleness to his pallor. Phil had nothing to say to him, could find nothing short of an apology that Steve refused to hear the times where feigning sleep simply wasn't an option. And so he offered a grateful smile that never reached his eyes and had nightmares of draining the man dry and the world suffering, crying out for that same man to save them, always receiving no answer simply because Phil Coulson had lost control.

It was ridiculous and he knew it. Hill had assured him Rogers was fine, and Romanov and Barton had hacked the files to prove it. It did nothing to shake the feeling of what he had done, what he had almost done, and what the consequences would have been had he done so.

He tried to sneak back to his rooms upon release but was thwarted because, of course, there was a welcome home/interrogation party waiting upon his arrival. There was ice cream and cake and all his favorites and not a single drop of blood to be seen. The atmosphere was casual and relaxed and put him on edge as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

Steve was at the counter, helping himself to thirds, clad in the rare jeans and t-shirt that only served to highlight the incongruous Iron Man bandaid at the crook of his elbow. "Medical seems to have a rather odd sense of humor," he said by way of explanation, though something still did not quite sit right with the image he presented.

"But I bit your wrist," Phil said before he could stop himself, confusion winning out over decorum.

A bowl of chocolate pecan was placed in front of him before Steve offered a shrug. "That was healed within hours," he said as he dug into his own matching confection. "This is from the blood draw. They insisted protocol states they must bandage the site, though they never did explain why it had to have Stark's ugly mug on it."

"They thought you could use a little style," Tony grinned, shamelessly pouring a ridiculous amount of hot fudge on both his ice cream and his cake. "They weren't wrong."

Phil blinked away the nonsense and instead concentrated on the words, "Blood draw?" Even at his most delirious, he had never infected another, always careful, always refusing to let them take as well as give. Not to mention, SHIELD would have had a full twenty-four hours to administer the antidote before the infection was irreversible. 

But what if the antidote and the serum had interacted with each other? What if the cure caused more damage than the disease? What if Steve was there daily, not for visits, but because he was confined to Medical while they ran their tests and searched for a cure? His mind reeled with the possibilities, and he shoved his treat away, no longer having the appetite for it.

He found it back in his hands anyway, Barton steadying it from the other side. "He's clean, sir," he insisted.

Phil caught a breath he hadn't known he had lost and asked, "How can you be certain?"

Clint rolled his eyes and it was a familiar comfort. "Well, there's those pesky things called tests, and then there's that whole 'he's a super soldier that can't get sick to save his life' thing," he drawled. "If he can fight off a Tower full of strep throat and chicken pox, a little sanguiphore infection should be nothing, right?"

Phil's mind flashed to the unfortunate event referenced, and how even he had fallen victim to the strep, throat constricting and unable to even swallow the soup offered, let alone something a little more warming.

Rogers must have read the look on his face as he answered his unasked question with, "I had them take a few pints to put on reserve, just in case you need them in the future." He looked almost embarrassed as he added, "They said fresh is better, but I thought... well... with as well as it worked this time, it couldn't hurt to have some on hand."

"With the crap we get into? Hell yeah," Barton agreed.

"Though, to be fair, I don't trust SHIELD as far as I can throw 'em, sans suit, so there are a few security protocols I added to make sure they don't, say, try to clone him or replicate the serum or accidentally create a super virus - you know, that sort of thing," Stark cut in. "It'll take two of us, and you count as one so shush, to override anything. I figure, in an emergency, at least that many should be mobile and can get to it. There's a few more bells and whistles, but you get the gist of it." He shoved another bite of pure sugar into his mouth as if that was the end of the discussion which, with Stark, it may well be.

As for Phil himself, he still wasn't quite sure what to think of the whole thing. His secret was out and not only accepted, but there was now a contingency plan in place for it as well. A contingency plan that revolved around him feeding off of his childhood hero. True, said hero's Gift had him up and on his feet again in less than a quarter of the time of any of the usual SHIELD reserves, and had pushed the hunger down to a level unlike any he had experienced in his rather long and impressive memory, but he couldn't say he was comfortable with any of the processes that had led him to this point.

"It shouldn't be necessary," he said, trying for stoic but knowing they all saw right through it anyway.

"And yet, just like this room full of bonafide, actual, real super heroes, it's there just in case it's needed," Stark shrugged. He then pushed at the long forgotten bowl of slowly melting ice cream with the tip of his spoon and said, "Eat up, the sugar's supposed to be good for you."

"Carbohydrates are supposed to be good for him, especially after a bleed," Natasha corrected as she delicately consumed her own bowl of gelato.

"Whatever, we'll have Italian for dinner then," Tony waved her off. He turned his attention back to Phil and confided, "I know a place with a spaghetti puttanesca that will redefine the meaning of the the words 'live saving' - I'll even ask them to make yours sans garlic if you want which, hey, makes a lot more sense now by the way. Besides, I'm still trying to figure out how Vamp Man here can go out in the sun, let alone the whole eating human food thing."

Coulson rolled his eyes. "If sunlight truly killed us, my kind would have died off centuries ago," he muttered before he finally dug into his confection.

"Over half the myths about sanguiphores are wrong," Barton drawled. He knew exactly which ones as well, a different sort of contingency plan worked out after a particularly grueling mission with those of Phil's kind that were less than amiable about the thought of less than fresh foodstuffs. Fury knew as well, of course, but Medical had been fed enough false information to leak on the off chance someone planned an attack. Only a trusted few knew the full truth, and carried the appropriate countermeasures just in case they were needed.

"So Anne Rice lied? Bummer," Stark mock pouted. He then had to go on to explain who the author was in the grand scheme of things to Rogers and Thor, with a promise to get them the books and wouldn't that just lead to some new and interesting questions?

But that seemed to be the end of it, really. They knew his secret, and no one cared. Well, that was a lie. They cared, but solely about how to treat him, how to help him, how to not accidentally poison him by adding the wrong ingredients to the team dinners - not that garlic would actually kill him, but too much did give him terrible indigestion. The rest of it didn't matter, and part of him wondered why he ever thought it would. They lived in a world where super soldiers, super geniuses, and aliens existed - what was one more weirdness to add to the mix?

He leaned back ever so slightly in his chair and licked the sweetness off his spoon and wondered if the world had any idea about those who watched over them, those who protected them. He also wondered if the world had any idea about the true threats that they faced in the dead of night, and that the sanguiphores were the least of their worries. He looked to the room full of heroes, full of friends, that surrounded him though, and figured they would work it out - both the threats and the neutralization - like they apparently did everything else thus far: together.

 

End.


End file.
